


These Are the Secrets I Have Kept

by seutedeern



Category: The Monstrumologist Series - Rick Yancey
Genre: M/M, Telepathy, X-men Inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:54:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1868679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seutedeern/pseuds/seutedeern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A X-Men inspired AU in which Will is a telepath and Pellinore can control metal. Pellinore teaches Will not only in Monstrumology but also how to use his ability.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Are the Secrets I Have Kept

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading so many Cherik fics lately that I simply had to write such a Willinore fic. Just a little bit of Willinore fun with aged-up Will.
> 
> The first two sentences were directly quoted from the Monstrumologist; the rest is mine.
> 
> Thanks a lot to [obstinatrix](http://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix) for beta-reading. :)

These are the secrets I have kept. This is the trust I never betrayed.  
  
If I had done so, he would have killed me in an instant. The risk had always been there, but he had trusted me, and I have got to give him credit for that. Oh, the things I could have told his rivals around the world -- I could have been the wealthiest man alive with the knowledge I possessed.  
  
But I never betrayed him once.  
  
At first, I hadn’t realised that it was an actual gift. I had thought of it as a disturbance, that perhaps something was not working right, that something was wrong up in my head. When it first started, I had only been a boy of six, had barely started with my life as a pupil at the school just around the corner from where my family and I had lived. When it all began, I had been, to be frank, more than disturbed. There were voices in my head,  _thoughts_ , but they weren’t my own. I thought I was going mad, although at that time I hadn’t quite grasped what it meant, only that I was horribly scared by it.  
  
I remember the moment I started to  _understand_  what was going on. I was watching two of my neighbours in the classroom, who had been exchanging little notes while our teacher had been occupied with the blackboard. In my mind, their voices were surprisingly clear, praying that hopefully, the strict Mr. Gainsborough would not turn around and spot the note. After all, it had contained a caricature of him as a witch with a big wart on his slender nose.  
  
My neighbour’s startled look at me when I chuckled at that had silenced me immediately, and I quickly averted my gaze, my cheeks burning with shame.  
  
I have never been quite sure if there had been more children at my school with such talents, and for a long time, it made me feel like an outcast.  
  
That was, until I caught the voice of Pellinore Warthrop in my brain.  _So, he’s one, too._  
  
I didn’t get to see Warthrop often, only a handful of times, until I was forced by unfortunate circumstances to live with him. My nervousness and grief must have filled the entire area of the police station, because as soon as he picked me up to take me to his home, his face fell -- even more so, if that had been possible -- and he looked utterly miserable. Just as bad as I felt at that time. The rest of the police station department seemed just as gloomy to me, although I didn’t really care about what was going on around me.  
  
The problem was, I had yet to learn how to control my power. My parents had known that I was different, that I could hear their thoughts, but they were at loss when it came to helping me. It wasn’t just the thoughts that I could hear, it was also the unfortunate gift of sending my own thoughts and emotions to other people. Whenever that happened, people around me flinched as though someone had hit them, before they looked at me with suspicion in their eyes.  
  
I suppose I should be grateful once again that Doctor Warthrop had taken custody of me after my parents’ death. I may have been his assistant and apprentice in the fields of Monstrumology but he was also my mentor when it came to learning how to control my gift.  
  
I must admit, initially I hadn’t understood what he had meant by thinking that I was  _one, too_  but it became clear to me rather quickly. Only a couple of days had passed since I had moved in at Harrington Lane, when I found out that my new master had powers as well. It was a rather harsh introduction to his gift, but an introduction nonetheless.  
  
He had been in his cellar, completely absorbed in his studies, and hadn’t heard me calling his name from the kitchen. Since the rustling noises coming from the cellar didn’t stop, I walked down the dark narrow staircase to find the doctor looking through his shelf while frantically muttering incoherent sentences and words to himself, his back facing me.  
  
“Doctor Warthrop, sir?” I called again, and the doctor spun around with a yelp, eyes widened comically. I would have laughed at his expression, had it not been for the scalpels and other sharp metallic objects that came flying straight in my direction. Before any harm could be done, however, Warthrop had quickly regained his composure and waved his hand, the metal falling to the ground with a loud crash.  
  
“William James Henry!” he cried and threw his hands up as he came stomping towards me, “How often do I have to repeat myself, you thickheaded boy? Haven’t I told you often enough that you are not to sneak up on me and scare me to death?”  
  
“I--I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to --” I couldn’t continue. My heart was still racing, and my face must have looked paler than a ghost's, for the doctor’s lean features softened slightly, and he ran a hand through his unruly raven mane.  
  
“Well, now you know,” he huffed and added, “What did you want from me, anyway? Tell me, I don’t have much time! Snap to!”  
  
And this was how I had found an unusual companion with the same fate of being blessed (or cursed?) with a gift as unusual as mine.  
  
*  
  
Living with the monstrumologist turned out to be more draining and demanding than I would have first expected. I had known that Pellinore Warthrop was a man full of aspiration and diligence. He and my father had travelled around the world; at times they had been away for a span of several months, chasing some yet unknown species of life, while my mother and I had been waiting at home, anxious for my father to return safely. He demanded all of my father’s devotion and trust, and it was understood that my father had to leave his bed at night to help the doctor with his gruesome profession when help was needed.  
  
Nevertheless, I had thought that, perhaps, the doctor would expect and demand less from an eleven-year-old boy. How wrong I had been. Often enough I loathed him for his cruel comments on my intelligence and his lack of appreciation for my services. If it hadn’t been for my telepathic gift, I am certain that I would have completely misunderstood his wish to give me the best education as a simple way of taunting and spiting me for having unsolicitedly interfered with his life.  
  
But I sensed that Warthrop had never meant to come off as malicious. I knew that he cared about me. While others might have thought that the word  _indispensable_  in relation to me could have been a sarcastic remark, I felt that he truly meant it whenever he repeated how indispensable I was to him.  
  
While the study of monstrumology was certainly time consuming with hours on end spent in the cellar with the carcasses of dead creatures, the monstrumologist also took his time to train me in my abilities to use my power. When I was too tired to concentrate on using my telepathy properly, Warthrop took some delight in bending old scalpels and forming them into the most different shapes just so I could stay focused on at least  _something_. He was aware that I was fascinated by his power to control metal, and he performed for me not quite without a certain amount of smugness which had one corner of his mouth going up, forming a self-satisfied little smirk. Pellinore Warthrop wasn’t a humble man, and he loved having an audience he could impress with his knowledge and everything else his brain had to offer.  
  
One of my favourite exercises concerning my telepathy was that the doctor allowed me to slip into his mind and control his actions. My first attempts at that had been rather clumsy, and not subtle at all. But over the years, my powers not only got stronger, but I also knew how to handle them in a more delicate way. We first practised by letting me control what kind of shapes the doctor should form out of a metal lump. Warthrop tried to build up a mental barrier against my power, I had to try and overcome it. The stronger I got, the easier I could handle him.  
  
Naturally, my telepathic gift brought along an incredible advantage for our profession. Often enough Warthrop quietly sent thoughts into my direction to wipe out someone’s memory if they had witnessed something that hadn’t been meant for their eyes. Sometimes, obliviousness of the cruelty of nature and the horrible wonders it held for us was far better than facing reality. It also came in handy whenever the police showed up at our door at Harrington Lane. From the moment that I was capable of manipulating people’s minds, Warthrop was more than happy to benefit from that ability. I don’t know how often I had saved him from prison over the years. Or from the misfortune of being some lady’s object of desire.  
  
Although one could say that I had saved him from the latter rather for my own purposes, despite knowing that he wouldn’t have had any interest anyway.  
  
*  
  
For the longest time, I had ignored my feelings regarding my master and mentor. Each time there was a niggling feeling at the back of my mind when Warthrop said or did something that made my throat go dry and face heat up, I brushed off the silent flutter in my stomach as a harmless triviality. And yet, I had to keep my mind sealed each time we were close, especially when the doctor needed a shave. Those were always the most dangerous and treacherous times for me. There were moments when I wondered if he was able to read my mind as well, because I would catch a glimpse of amusement in his eyes, a smile lingering on his lips.  
  
“Aren’t you feeling well, Will Henry?” he usually asked.  
  
“I’m fine, sir.”  
  
“Really.” A lift of one eyebrow, disbelieving my words. Perhaps he was simply good at reading my expressions -- I tended to scrunch up my face in concentration when I was trying to block out my own thoughts and prevent them from being sent to someone else while I felt uneasy. After all those years of living together, it would have been no surprise if he had been able to read me like a book.  
  
What seemed odd to me, however, was that Warthrop, too, held back his own thoughts. It was a strange sensation, really. As a child, he had encouraged me to enter his mind and practise my ability with it, but then, quite unexpectedly, he had started to withdraw himself from me, and it made me feel a little more than simply nervous. I brooded over the question whether I had done something wrong, or if Warthrop was trying to separate himself from me. Maybe he was looking for a new apprentice and wanted to detach himself from me slowly?  
  
Almost thirteen years had passed since he had taken me under his wing. We were practically joined at the hip, had been through good and bad times. I sighed at the mere idea that he might want to get rid of me.  
  
I don’t think he had planned for me to notice it, to hear it and see it but one night, I woke up, feeling rather restless due to the images that had appeared in my dream -- only that it had  _not_  been my dream but rather someone else’s. Someone else who made strange noises in his room below mine, noises that had me rather concerned despite the vivid images his thoughts had sneaked into my dream.  
  
My cheeks flushed as I remembered what had happened -- large but graceful hands roaming over my body, his hot mouth on my neck and his hips between my legs, pressed against me. It had felt so real that it took me a while to compose myself after I had sat up. Hoping I didn’t look too dishevelled and flustered, I lit a candle and went to the doctor’s room. I wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to see or needed me, but the soft noises that came from his room concerned me nevertheless.  
  
I knocked sharply three times at the doctor’s door, another soft noise from inside followed before Warthrop piped up hoarsely, “I’m fine, Will Henry. Snap to and go back to bed!”  
  
Frowning still, I didn’t move at first. My hand rested lightly upon the doorknob, and if it hadn’t been for my master’s thoughts directed at me, the sound of his voice low and dangerous ( _I told you to keep out, didn’t I? If you enter this bedroom, I will make you regret it._ ), I would have tried to enter his room nevertheless.  
  
His threatening thoughts directed at me were more than convincing, and quickly, I scuttled away, hurried back into my tiny bedroom. As I sat there in complete silence, listening to Warthrop’s restless footsteps down on the floor below me, I couldn’t help but ponder over the meaning of all this.  
  
It had to be a misunderstanding, I convinced myself. Perhaps that dream had been my own, only that I didn't recognise it as such. I wouldn't have been surprised, as I had been aware of my own feelings concerning the monstrumologist for a while now. Nibbling at my bottom lip, I worried over the possibility that I had accidentally transmitted this dream into Warthrop’s mind and had thus upset him.  
  
I sighed deeply, knowing that I would have to wait until the next day if I wanted to get some clarity on this matter. And yet, I was troubled by the thought that Warthrop would throw me out after this night.  
  
*  
  
Of course he didn't say anything. He glared at me, silently ordered me not to dip into his mind unless I was feeling hopelessly suicidal. How could I have ever expected anything else from that man?  
  
It was frustrating to be granted with a gift such as mine and be forbidden to use it. But I obeyed my master, which seemed to please him well enough that he would at least snap orders at me. Other than that, he kept a safe distance from me.  
  
"Sir, are you sure I shouldn't assist you with dissecting the carcass? I thought --"  
  
"How about you think less, Will Henry, and just do for once what I asked you to," he growled at me, not bothering to turn around and look at me.  
  
 _Stupid bloody boy, why can't he just leave me be for five minutes? I should have never taken him in. Curse James and Mary, and my own idiocy, and curse this --_  
  
I heaved a quiet, embarrassed cough. He was practically yelling his thoughts at me. Even with having built up a barrier between us, I could still hear him as clearly as though he was shouting into my ear.  
  
"I can hear you, you know. If you don't want me to hear you, you better quieten your thoughts down a notch."  
  
I regretted what I had said right after the words had left my mouth. Warthrop spun around on his heel, dark eyes burning intensely into my skull, and I noticed how the entire dissecting table shook dangerously behind him. When Warthrop couldn't keep his temper under control, he tended to accidentally destroy metallic objects around him without being aware of it.  
  
" _You..!_ " he hissed as he pointed at me with a trembling finger. "Keep your cheeky tongue under control or I will silence you personally! How dare you talk to me like that?"  
  
I stared at him with wide eyes, but from the corner of my vision, I could see the table starting to liquefy, beginning to engulf the carcass upon it.  
  
"Sir," I began, mouth dry, but Warthrop wouldn't have any of it. I would have warned him, but he grabbed a heavy book and threw it after me. I managed to duck away quickly, and escaped his tirade as fast as my feet could carry me.  
  
When I was upstairs in the kitchen, I willed my heartbeat to calm down. Warthrop, on the other hand, screamed bloody murder once he noticed what he had done to his latest object of study.  
  
What followed seemed like an endless spiral of misery on his, as well as my part.  
  
I was used to not talking to him, to have him ignoring me as I could usually find solace in his wonderful, brilliant vivid mind. I had never really felt lonely around him because of our constant invisible connection.  
  
But now -- but now it was downright terrible. Neither did he speak to me, nor allow me into his mind. His hackles would rise up instantly if I tried to as much as check upon his mood. I had to suppress my ability completely, which was at times more draining than working with the monstrumologist for almost two days straight without any proper breaks.  
  
It wasn’t only the lack of telepathic connection to Warthrop which had my mood dropping into a bottomless pit of despair. The little things affected me almost as much. Warthrop didn’t let me anywhere near him, whether it was at the rebuilt dissecting table where I’d hand him the instruments or our daily routine of getting him dressed and shaving him each morning. I caught him how he used his power to shave himself while he read the newspaper.  
  
Warthrop  _never_  shaved himself, and he  _never_  read the newspaper.  
  
He usually had me read it to him, especially the parts worth gossiping over. His passion for gossip and his often crude remarks would have awed the chattiest fishwife.  
  
I missed his gossiping.  
  
And frankly, I missed being close to him.  
  
*  
  
We both knew it had to stop someday, though. Warthrop might have been more stubborn than twenty donkeys, but at least I admitted that it couldn’t go on like this for much longer. Two weeks of strange behaviour around one another, followed by even stranger dreams at night had reduced us both to nervous wrecks. It had to stop, one way or another.  
  
At least I was mature enough to admit this first. Getting the doctor to talk to me, however, proved to be an entirely different thing.  
  
He avoided me at all costs, even when it came to visiting clients in other villages and towns. Of course one might wonder why I didn’t simply take charge of his mind and force him to listen to me, to talk to me, to just  _say_  what was going on. The answer was simple enough: neither did I want to betray his trust nor force him to do something he wasn’t willing to do. I wanted him to come to me voluntarily, and come he did.  
  
Perhaps he gave in because I had cut my hand badly and the wound needed to be stitched, or perhaps he, too, was too emotionally and physically exhausted from this cat-and-dog chase. Either way, Warthrop was forced to interact with me under these unfortunate (for him -- fortunate for me) circumstances, and I sensed that he summoned all strength not to let his thoughts slip towards my mind.  
  
“Careful, Will Henry. Sit down, I’ll get a needle and yarn.”  
  
He left me alone for a couple of minutes before he returned with the promised objects, and then sat down next to me on his favourite chair in the kitchen.  
  
“Do you think you can keep your hand still?” he asked and eyed me properly again with his dark eyes. It had been too long since he had last looked at me. I merely nodded in reply for I didn’t trust my voice to form any coherent sounds.  
  
He only gave me a crooked smile in reply as he threaded the yarn through the needle, and then took my hand with both of his, keeping my arm firmly fixed in place. I watched with rapt fascination how the needle moved on its own accord -- the doctor’s ability never failed to fascinate me -- and before I could have said ‘knife’ it began patching up my wound. Flinching and hissing in pain, I tried to pull my hand away out of reflex but Warthrop held me steadily while making soothing sounds, “Shhh, it will be over soon, Will Henry. The more you struggle against it, the more it will hurt.” He was right.  
  
I bit down hard on my bottom lip, a whimper escaping me every once in a while, but the doctor’s presence helped me to forget about the stinging pain in my palm. His hands were warm and steady, felt good against my skin which was a more than welcome comfort. Warthrop must have caught my feelings as I could see a slight blush spreading on his finely chiseled features. And to my delight, I sensed that the feeling was mutual. The doctor shot me a warning glare, a reminder that I was not to enter his mind, and I ducked my head, feeling as though I had been caught doing something naughty.  
  
When it was done, Warthrop inspected my hand once more, and carefully wrapped a bandage around it. Watching his long and graceful fingers working, was simply mesmerising. Apparently, I must have accidentally sent that thought straight to him because he barked out a sudden laugh, shaking his head.  
  
“Oh, Will Henry, we two are an odd pair, aren’t we? Dancing around each other for weeks --”  
  
“Because  _you_  wouldn’t talk to me,” I reminded him bitterly.  
  
The monstrumologist stared at me for a long second, before he coughed. “Right. As I said, dancing around each other for weeks only not to act upon our feelings.”  
  
“Feelings?” My head shot up at that remark. A world of ambiguous possibilities opened itself before my very eyes, and I had a difficult time choosing the most likely possibility he could have implied.  
  
But Warthrop only blinked slowly. “I -- I’m sorry, I thought that… that you…? Too?” It took a lot to render Pellinore Xavier Warthrop speechless, and it was the first time I had witnessed him actually speechless and  _flustered_. Quite obviously, he was embarrassed, lost for words. It was an endearing sight, but also a chance for me to slip into his mind while he was distracted. As I did so, I was overwhelmed by the force of emotions that flooded into my system.  
  
Warthrop shot me a worried look when I didn’t respond at first to his question. He made an attempt at withdrawing his hands but I snapped out of my stupor quickly enough to grab one of his hands with my good one and keep him seated next to me.  
  
“Me, too,” I simply said, the hind of a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.  
  
The doctor continued to stare at me as though he had forgotten how to use language, mouth hanging open. “You…too?”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
“But --” He shook his head, as if to clear it of the thoughts that clogged up his brain. “It’s not  _proper_ , Will Henry. It’s not right, it’s --”  
  
“Perfect?” I finished for him, squeezing his wrist gently. “Doctor, I’m almost 24 years old, and I’m capable of making my own decisions.” He shot me a wary look, accompanied by a wry, almost bitter smile which I found myself wanting to smother in kisses. “Besides,” I added as I moved closer to him, “When have you ever lived under circumstances that society regards as proper and right?”  
  
“Cheeky boy,” he sighed as he shook his head, smiling nevertheless, softer and more sincere this time.  
  
“I’m not a child, doctor Warthrop.”  
  
“I know. I have never treated you as one either.”  
  
“I know. Then why start now?”  
  
It was as though I had read his mind since this seemed to be the only thing he needed to hear before he turned around his hand and pulled me in for a kiss.  
  
But I swear, this time I didn’t use my ability.


End file.
